Your Smile
by DragonRose888
Summary: I follow you where ever you go, I am your shadow when you walk against the sun. You have my smile, and your mother's eyes. You bare my marks, and her grief. I call you 'son', you call me 'no one'. I'm so sorry... Ash Back Story, POV of his Father.


**Author's Note: A bit of a different pace. ShiShi if you squint.**

**Warnings: Violence, mentions of alcohol abuse, slight shota.**

**Summary: I follow you where ever you go, I am your shadow when you walk against the sun. You have my smile, and your mother's eyes. You bare my marks, and her grief. I call you 'son', you call me 'no one'. I'm so sorry... (Back story to Ash, but in someone else's point of view.)**

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**Your Smile**

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He has your smile, his mother's eyes, and his grandfather's hair.

He has your courage, his mother's caring heart, and his grandmother's strength.

He has the marks you gave him still on his face, for the world to see; he bares his mother's sadness; he will never know your parents' shame.

You didn't start with a Pikachu, although many who know your son will assume you did. It adds to the legend, after all: the awe and the wonder of what this boy, your flesh and blood, has accomplished. No...no, you started with Squirtle, many years ago, but he didn't become your loyal best friend. He was merely a pawn to gain the title you strived for, what your boy strives for. You wanted to be a Pokemon Master, no...no, that's not right. You wanted to be THE Pokemon Master, isn't that right?

You both traveled with another boy and a girl. You both had a horrible, terrible rival that spurred you on. Hell, the rivals are related, even!

You fell in love with the girl, and she with you. The boy was your best man, and he went on to breed like no tomorrow. The rival married and had two kids who you despised, just because they were his blood. Your girl, she told you to accept them: after all, the man who gave you that Squirtle was also your rival's father.

You didn't listen. Not even when she became pregnant with your son did you listen. And love couldn't bring you to stay: you were determined to reach your goal, because you weren't finished. You didn't want to be tied down already, to have failed. Son or no, you didn't want a baby.

But she begged you, and you loved her, (you still do), so you stayed. You never knew such misery, such guilt. You held your baby boy in your arms only briefly the day of his birth before you handed him back, preferring to sit by the window while the towns people told your girl how beautiful and cute your baby boy was.

And you didn't care.

You mourned for the life lost. You never forgave yourself for falling in love and having your son. You lost it all with that little plus on the test, and it haunted you.

As he grew, you drank. You drank and drank and drank, and then you began to hit. You threw things, you made your girl scream, you made your son cower in fear, and you LIKED it. You WANTED them to feel the sadness and pain of your regrets.

You came into your son's room, one night, a pen knife in hand. You saw him there, only five years old, sucking his thumb as he slept, arm around a plush doll your girl got for him. That was another thing: you didn't want to work. You didn't want him, so why should you have had to pay for him to live? And the thumb was what did it. You told him over and over that men didn't suck their thumbs. They didn't cry, or whine, or play with those kids of your rival's, either. And so you grabbed that thumb and yanked it out of his mouth, and he cried because his teeth tore off some of the skin there. You hated when he cried: why did he get to cry? He had it all, and you...you'd LOST it all. So you snarled at him to shut up, and you straddled him, your knees on his hands so that he was trapped. Then you took that pen knife and you cut into his face. Your free hand was over his mouth, and to this day you can see his wide, terrified and sad eyes staring up at you while you marked him for life.

The were 'z's. For the sleep you lost over the years, since your girl told you she was having a baby. They were 'zeros', for all that you thought you'd ever amount to be, then. Tears from his eyes stung the wounds, and he eventually fainted, the blood from his wounds running down his face, into his mouth, over his throat. You left the room silently, and you went into town for another beer.

You left the day after. You knew you couldn't stay, now when you knew your girl would never look at you the same way again. You took your starter, then a Blastoise, and your other Pokemon from your home. You took your ring, you took pictures of her, and...it surprises you to this day, but you took one of your little boy, the one you scarred for life. You're not quite sure why you did that, but now you are thankful you did. Because that pictures helps you remember what you did, and it helps you feel guilty, just like a father should.

Never did you see your son, for another five years, and then...it was remarkable, really. He started to end up on the television, in the newspapers. He was DOING things, you see, and he was helping people. He was spreading his golden heart throughout the world, one step at a time, and he was doing what you wanted to do all those years ago. He was going to be the next Pokemon Master. At first, you were shocked, and then you were angry. You would have to face him, one day, and defeat him, and then it would all come out: how you were a horrible father, husband, and person. You don't want the public to see you that way.

But you never did become a Pokemon Master. You left that night and never dared show your face again, paranoid that people would see your hide and know what you'd done. They would bore their eyes into your very soul and see what a fool you were.

He travels with a boy at his side, a girl on his other. The girls have changed many times, of course, but you see the red-head most of all. You see how she yearns for your boy, how her love is pure. The boy has changed only once, and he was once a gym leader, now an ally to your boy. His replacement now resides with your rival's father.

Your rival is dead.

He died a year after you fled your home, leaving the two orphaned children behind, for he took his wife with him to the grave. They died behind the wheel of that car you always hated. People even say it was you, and yet you know you could never kill. Those days were over months after you mutilated your boy's face. You went to his grave, and you apologized, but as it was with your girl and your son, you knew it was far too late to say that you were sorry.

Your son didn't fall in love with the red-haired girl. He didn't date the brunette that came after her, or the blue-haired girl who travels with him, now. In fact, your boy isn't even heterosexual. He's dating _your rival's son_. HIS rival, at one point. And you were in a rage, at first. How dare he, you thought. You thought he ruined your name, even though he's seeing the boy in secret. And then you realized, with much guilt, that you NEVER raised him to be anything. His MOTHER did that, your girl. And she taught him to forgive, to accept all for who they were, and so he did.

You, the fool of a man who now knows he had everything, who now has nothing, stands at the entrance to the stadium, where you see your son holding his starter in triumph, medals draped around their necks. Everyone who has helped him get this far stand around him, and they head towards you. A lump forms in your throat, and there are so many things you want to say to him as he comes closer. Your own hat is covering your face from view, and you lean against the pillars, in the shadows, waiting for him.

Your eyes meet. His eyes and yours are different, but his smile is yours, no doubt, and the hair is his grandfather's, who disowned you, your girl, and your son, because you never truly married your son's mother. That smile fades, and you can see the puzzlement in his eyes as he works out how he knows you, and you see it click, you see the shock. For a moment, you both stare. You're aware that the woman, the beautiful woman who was once your girl, your love, your everything, is shaking from suppressed emotions at the sight of you, but you know she will never understand. You want your son to understand, you want him to know that you love him. As you stare at him, your tongue works behind your closed mouth, forming words that you cannot bring yourself to say. You both have the same pride, but he knows when to admit his flaws, and you still do not.

You want him to call to you. You want to hear him call you 'Daddy', just like he did all those years ago, but you know he's older, now, and he most likely would call you 'Dad' or 'Father'. You want him to run to you and hug you, to cry, even, just a little, and you want to hold him tightly to yourself and cry a little, too. You want your girl to come to you and ask you 'why', and you want to kiss her just as you did all those years ago, to beg for both their forgiveness.

But he pulls down the brim of his cap. He and the others walk away. You hear the red-head ask:

"Who was that, Ash? Do you know him?"

And you hear, with a stab to your broken, beaten, crushed heart:

"No."

Your girl lingers. You feel her touch on your hand, and you look up. You know you are crying. You feel she will leave, and she will, but she stares at you, and you at her.

But she doesn't get angry. She grips your hand, and you know now that she forgave you, all those years ago, and you feel more tears leak out from your eyes. She swallows, and you know she is holding back her own tears, before she whispers:

"Give him time."

And then she lets go, and you are alone again, without anything in the world. You lost your everythings long ago: your life, your girl, your boy.

She gave you hope, and you leave when everyone else has left, all alone. One day, you will hold your son in your arms as you did the day he was born, you will hug him tightly, and you will tell him how sorry you are. You will hold him and never want to let go, for the title you sought is now nothing compared to the love you have for he and his mother. You wish you'd known that, all those years ago.

Until then, you follow in the shadows, watching him grow, and you wait.

You wait, and you finger the scars you gave yourself, a year after you gave your son the same ones.

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**Author's Note: Fin.**


End file.
